


Some Pedestals are Meant for Gargoyles, not Gods

by IHaveNeverBeenWise



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, M/M, Platonic Relationship, can be non platonic if you squint, platonic superhusbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 18:29:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IHaveNeverBeenWise/pseuds/IHaveNeverBeenWise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I can’t be everything you think I am,” and it is a confession, hanging heavy in the air between them.</p>
<p>For a moment, Enjolras is frozen – wish shock, surprise, pity, disgust, Combeferre cannot tell. But then he is shifting his position so that he is holding Combeferre, arms wrapped around his shoulders. Suddenly afraid that Enjolras will tell him what he doesn’t want to hear – that it’s okay, that he’ll do fine, that he’s smart – Combeferre tenses. These empty nothings are exactly what he fears. But Enjolras has never disappointed him, and doesn’t do so now</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Pedestals are Meant for Gargoyles, not Gods

**Author's Note:**

> In which Combeferre holds himself to standards that he cannot meet, and thinks that the others hold the same standards.

It is late enough at night for the street lamps to be the only light in the street, and Combeferre is still awake. It will be summer soon, but it is not quite yet; that the heat of June is carried on the damp and dirty rain that is a leftover from spring. Combeferre never sleeps well during the summer. He’ll toss and turn, kept awake in the heat and humidity no matter how he positions himself. But now, there is no time to sleep.

Sleep is no longer a luxury he can afford – there are too many tests. Too many, too soon, and he is not prepared for any of them. So he doesn’t sleep – it’s been nearly three days now. And he knows that can’t be healthy – his eyes ache and the muscles in his shoulders are tense to the point of pain, he keeps yawning and there is a slight tremor in his hands. But he can’t sleep, not yet – he’ll go over his calc notes one more time, and then maybe allow himself two hours. Maybe.

There are many things more important to him than his grades – his friends, his family, their activism. He is not sure when his grades became such a priority, but here they are. Maybe it’s because people expect him to be perfect. They expect high grades – top of the class, of course – because Combeferre is brilliant and studies; he is a model student and a model child. So how could he do anything less than meet their expectations? How could he let them down? Ask Combeferre, he knows everything. Combeferre, were you the grading curve again? Combeferre, you got that right, didn’t you? If you’re confused, Combeferre can help.

Only, he can’t, not always. Sometimes, he can, and he loves that. He bases his self-worth almost entirely off of how useful he is. But he can’t be everything they expect of him, not all the time. He simply is not capable of that.

And he’s falling now, and slipping, and the last time he’d told someone how close he was to breakdown, they’d patted him on the shoulder and said – “You’re Combeferre, you’ll do fine.” And that was the problem – yes, his name was Combeferre, but that didn’t guarantee anything, anything at all. And he’s terrified of failure, ridiculously so, and he knows that he’s being ridiculous but that doesn’t help calm him down. He’s running on mere minutes of sleep and his body is shaking and he can’t focus. The words he read don’t make sense and his breath is coming in short, sharp, gasps, and – fuck.

Because this feels like betrayal, to not do as well as they think he will. It feels like he’s let them all down, let Enjolras down, and sometimes, he feels like his intelligence is the only thing he’s good for. Take that away, and what is he?

“You’re being irrational,” he mutters to himself, but it doesn’t help, doesn’t help at all. If anything, it makes him feel worse, because he just can’t pull himself together, and people are relying on him. People are relying on him, and he can’t even focus on finals. It’s pathetic. He doesn’t know why anyone bothers with him. His eyes are beginning to sting, hi throat feels tight, and there’s something caught in his chest – he’s crying, little hiccups and pained whimpers, biting his lips in an attempt to stop until he draws blood.

There’s a knock in his door, and he stiffens, trying to stop his tears and wipe his eyes. He tries to say come in but it only comes out as a squeak. It is Enjolras – of course it’s Enjolras – and his friend is standing in the doorway, looking as if he has something urgent to say one moment and looking lost the next. Enjolras takes in the room, takes in Combeferre, and goes to sit on the bed next to him. He sets his hand on the bed between them.

“Combeferre, do you want me here?”

Combeferre gives him a shaky nod and takes the offered hand, holding it tightly. They sit in silence for a moment, Enjolras brushing his thumb over the back of Combeferre’s hand as he moves closer to him. He rubs Combeferre’s back tentatively, and Combeferre works to master himself, to slow his breathing.

“Can I get you anything? Water?”

Combeferre shakes his head – he’s thirsty, but he doesn’t want Enjolras to leave. He allows himself to lean into Enjolras’ touch as he takes shuddering breaths.

“Are you all right?”

Combeferre shrugs, then nods. “I will be well,” his voice is hoarse although the words are even. Enjolras accepts the words, but looks pensive.

“What’s wrong?” Enjolras isn’t pushing – he genuinely wishes to help, and Combeferre knows that if someone had hurt him, Enjolras would tear them limb from limb. Combeferre steals a glance at him – brow furrowed, lips pursed in concern, blue eyes wide and earnest. Combeferre can’t meet his eyes.

“I can’t be everything you think I am,” and it is a confession, hanging heavy in the air between them.

For a moment, Enjolras is frozen – wish shock, surprise, pity, disgust, Combeferre cannot tell. But then he is shifting his position so that he is holding Combeferre, arms wrapped around his shoulders. Suddenly afraid that Enjolras will tell him what he doesn’t want to here – that it’s okay, that he’ll do fine, that he’s smart – Combeferre tenses. These empty nothings are exactly what he fears. But Enjolras has never disappointed him, and doesn’t do so now.

“No one expects you to be perfect, Combeferre.” He speaks softly, and although Combeferre does not believe him, it is comforting. “It’s okay to not do as well as you’ve done in the past. I – it doesn’t make you worth any less, and no one can be perfect. Your grades, your scores – they don’t matter to us, Combeferre.”

Combeferre nods against his chest. The words feel good, and in Enjolras’ arms, he almost believes them. Almost, but not quite. Yet, he’s better, his breath is back under his control and the sobbing has stopped.

When Enjolras stands, Combeferre selfishly does not want him to leave. However, Enjolras merely moves the plethora of books and papers from the bed to the desk, and then returns to Combeferre’s side.

“Come on,” he helps Combeferre stand, and pulls back the blankets. “You haven’t sleeps in quite some time, if I know you.”

Combeferre nods his agreement and settles on the bed, taking up one side and leaving the other empty for Enjolras. It might feel belittling, the way he is looked after and tucked in, but with Enjolras, it isn’t. They’ve shared a bed many times since childhood, for any number of reasons. It’s familiar, soothing. He feels weak and drained and wrung-out and tired, but Enjolras is breathing slowly next to him, and it is silent save for muffled voices downstairs and cars in the street. Like this, he can almost convince himself that the test scores don’t matter.

He sleeps deeply.

When he gets the results, he’s passed them all; five out of six score in the high nineties. The sixth is an 86, but he can’t bring himself to care that it’s lower than his average.


End file.
